Broken
by usakiwigirl
Summary: Ianto is broken by too many traumas in too short a time. He can't take any more. Warning for suicide attempt, not graphic.


Written for Round 1 Challenge 3 of jack_ianto_las. The prompt was "terrible gift".

He was wet, bloody, tired and freezing. Stumbling into his flat in a near stupor, the only thought in his head to drown out the memories of the worst day of his life, along with the last six months or more. He couldn't go on, not with the knowledge of his failure warring with the terrible knowledge of just how close he'd been to success.

A trail of bottles - mostly alcoholic, some pharmaceutical - littered the hall from the kitchen through the bedroom, ending in a jumbled heap on the floor of the bathroom. Items spilled from the open door of the medicine cabinet to land in a haphazard mound in the sink; aftershave, shaving cream, toothpaste, cotton swabs, the razor held loosely in his fist.

Cold water poured from the shower-head, soaking his body as he hunched despondent in the bottom of the tub. His vision was blurred, although he was no longer sure if it was the alcohol, the pills or the blood-loss, as he watched with detached calm the rivers of red-turned-pink wash down the drain. The streams seemed to melt into one body of colour, becoming a torrent that dominated his sight, the edges fading and slowly creeping in, red with a black border, a cybernetic eye trained on him until he could no longer see anything, feel anything, hear anything.

Sound, vibration, light - one by one they slowly came back, each deliberate in its intensity, each returning to him the terrible gift of life. He heard heavy footsteps, voices, rustling as things around him were moved. He felt the shake of the bed as a body/bodies knocked the side and the foot, felt the blankets as they were straightened over him, felt the dip in the bed as a heavy weight dropped beside him.

Light came slowly through his closed eyes, first ambient from the room, then more concentrated, as a large, warm hand slowly lifted one eyelid, his body flinching from the intensity, his instinctual reaction to pull away and cover his face. This was when he found that movement was denied him, his arms not responding to his brain's frantic plea to protect his eyes.

"Easy, Ianto." A familiar voice, one that he knew he should still hate, yet craved to hear, sounded from above. The hand released his eyelid, letting it close in blessed relief. "You're damn lucky I found you when I did. Another five minutes and you'd be in the morgue right now, instead of the hospital. What the hell were you doing?"

He tried to open his mouth, beg for it all to end again, blinking rapidly to steady his vision, but a large palm descended over his mouth before reaching for a glass, another hand lifting his head so he could drink slowly from the edge. "Easy. Small sips." The glass was removed too soon, his head trying desperately to follow it.

"Now, try again. Why did I find you in a cold shower, covered in blood, and a razor blade clutched in your hand? I thought we had this conversation during your suspension."

"I failed… Tosh, you - all of them. I'm not… I shouldn't be… I can't do it, Jack. I can't be what you need." The words were choking him. He could feel burning at the back of his eyes, tears trying to form, to roll freely down his cheeks, but his body was beyond such mundane actions. He was broken, soul and spirit crushed by the weight of his guilt.

"Wrong. You gave Tosh your life. None of you would be alive if it wasn't for your sacrifice." Jack was slowly coming into focus, his own eyes now used to the harsh light. He was surprised to see the tears that wouldn't fall for him, instead flow unchecked down Jack's smooth cheek. He wanted to reach up, touch one, catch it on the tip of a finger, but again, his hands would not move when called upon. Pressure against his arms told him that he could still feel. He wasn't sure which was worse; being able to feel or not being able to move.

"Owen's suggestion - you're restrained, until we know for sure that you won't try again. Ianto, I thought we were beyond this. Why didn't you come to me?" The tears were still falling, landing silently on the bedclothes.

"You hate me. You should hate me. I don't deserve help. You should have left me - left me then, left me now. Let the cannibals finish what Lis… what she… started." Now the tears fell, hot trails sliding down the side of his face to drench his hair, small drops falling into his ears. His throat ached, he wanted to howl, to beat his fists and kick his legs, to beg for the cleaver to be returned to his neck, the slice started to be finished.

A muted fumble near his fingers, his hands suddenly available once again. Raising them, his intention to beat at the chest so conveniently placed right in front of him, instead he was gathered up, his arms closing around the overly-warm body, clinging for dear life. He was drowning once more, this time in a sea of emotion, fear buried beneath comfort, hate beaten back by love.

"I could never hate you, Ianto. I forgave you. I brought you back because I believed in you. I still believe in you. You're strong, more so than you think. You can do this. We can get through this, together."

He looked at the tear-streaked face before him, the honesty shining from the wet eyes. Jack believed in him, he wouldn't let him go. This life, this terrible gift he'd been given again, was his for the remaking. He knew he should take it, should be grateful for the chance once more to prove himself, to show himself worthy of this man before him.

He just wasn't sure he was up to the task.

End.


End file.
